


A Room Without Doors

by cartouche



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguity, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anorexia, Beverly Katz is the Best, Blood, Cannibalism, Hannibal and Will fall in love, Hannibal's cheekbones, It's all very ambiguous really, M/M, Murder, Oops, Triggers for (deep breath), Violence, Will Graham/Beverly Katz Friendship, alana and jack appear, and last but not least, and no one likes freddie, hence kissing, i swear this is actually very serious writing, ish, lack of chapters, terrible fills, who actally play a very important role in all this, why did you let me make tags again?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Will?' He says, and it's different and the same, closed and guarded and tinged with pain but still brimming with emotion so very unlike Hannibal the Stoic, Hannibal the Professionally Indifferent, Hannibal the Completely Impassive. He offers up a curl of his lips, carefully keeping his body language neutral as he coaxes the stray into the back of his car, and gets a slight smile in return. </p><p>'Hey.' There is a slight inclination of his head and the <em>Good evening</em> that follows is painful to listen to. 'You look better.' There is a grimace that doesn't belong on that face, his face, bones carved from mountains and eyes like lagoons and lips like icebergs tossed on a stormy sea and it catches Will off guard.</p><p>'Better.' He repeats, with a wave to the bandages swathing his head. 'Physically yes. However mentally I am told I am not who I am. Agent Crawford pushes me with questions I can not answer and the world punishes me for crimes I do not remember. Better.' </p><p>- </p><p>Written for a Kink Meme Prompt where Hannibal gets amnesia and doesn't remember all of his subsequent murders and cannibalisations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Room Without Doors

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 한국어 available: [A Room Without Doors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491816) by [ranisca0126](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranisca0126/pseuds/ranisca0126)



> Written for [this prompt](http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/3166.html?thread=6394462#cmt6394462) on the Kink Meme
> 
> If the OP sees this, I hope I satisfy. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, apologies.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

If I shall die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

 

The last thing Will remembers is eyes. Gaping holes slashed through a face still as calm as if he was lecturing which fork goes with which course. Will had stared into them, blood red slivers ringing, clinging to bottomless pupils. He had stared in and something dead looked back out.

 

He thinks that some part of him always knew. ( _And craved it_ , he doesn't think, doesn't breathe, doesn't.)

 

-

 

He's screaming, primal, roar, but no sound is reaching his ears. There's a burn in his throat, a dull ache, and for a moment, for one horrible moment, he can't breathe. Somewhere beside him there's a frantic, metallic blip matching his thumping heart and his vision is filled with white. He raises shaky hands to claw weakly at his mouth and tubes suck like leeches into his arms. There's shouting but he ignores it, still trying to prise the alien entity out of his mouth, fingers scrabbling at cool plastic. He's lying down, the world disorientated, and for a second he glimpses stark hospital walls, then the hands come and he's lost.

 

 _My sweet Will,_ the devil says, only in his dreams. _I'm sorry it had to end this way._

_(But don't fear. I'll worship you, devour you. I will eat your heart.)_

 

Unfamiliar fingers run through his hair and he flinches when the needle breaches his skin and then he's falling, tumbling back into the abyss. Time laughs at him and runs too quickly for him to grasp, sand that runs through his fingers. He surfaces, breathes and is pulled under again and unconsciousness greets him like an old friend. For a moment he stands in a big, big room, mezzanine floor, comfortable chairs and the stag watches him, paces in time with him, sits with him, knee over knee, immaculate suits, and the stag is no longer a stag. It wears a face and Will screams.

 

-

 

There's a knife, cold steel splitting his skin, and it's horribly, horribly beautiful. He watches with a delayed fascination as crimson blood gushes forth, bathing them both, offerings to unknown deities. His shirt is dyed red and hands raise up to lips and drink, drink his life force, his blood with the air of a connoisseur. The pain hits, a deep throb that makes him writhe and convulse and it's almost too much to bear. His vision swims, blurs, a swarm of flies dancing around the greying edge and it's the end, he knows. (Sirens wail and there are gunshots but the pain is too much and he gives in, lets it pull him under because he was _right under their nose all along_.)

 

It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. His stomach heaves.

 

-

 

He should be dead. He wishes he were dead. He rises again, pulled bodily out of the darkness, panting like a marathon runner, a deep sea diver. This time nothing pulls him back. Blink, once, twice, and the world focuses. _Killing must feel good to God too; he does it all the time_. Experimentally he tests his limbs, hands check, feet check, the pull of healing skin over his hip, check. He sits up, winces and collapses and tries again. Nothing if not stubborn. It takes him three tries to heave his body up and the green hospital gown rustles paper thin against his skin-

_There are dogs, baying and howling, drool slopping from sharpened fangs. Lungs burn and legs pump faster and faster because if he stops he's dead, trapped, a dancing bear caged for amusement. The forest blurs past him and branches whip at his face and cling to his legs, always slowing. The knife still glints wickedly in his hand, stained crimson with the mark of his work. Will, good Will. At least he had been spared, silenced by the blade in his gut. So very beautiful, perfect, covered in blood and moaning in painful ecstasy and-_

The wound is raw, swollen pink flesh around a long, jagged, red slit and he's going to be told off for peeling back the bandages but he has to look. He's been branded, marked, claimed, and it will always be there, shifting beneath his clothes, a smooth bone-white reminder of three piece suits and dark, dark eyes. Scar. Shame he couldn't finish the job. The hospital cot is a morgue slab and Will is dead on the inside, hollow. His lungs are full of concrete and if he could only _breathe_ , but the heart rate monitor is spiralling wildly out of control, a cacophony against his ears and nothing will ever be the same. Perhaps he needs therapy. He laughs and it's more just a push of needed air from his lungs.

 

-

 

He's lying, stumbled and splayed, in the corner of that little kitchen, 10 holes weeping ink, ichor, in his chest and his eyes are blank. _See?_ He says, _See_? and Will does see, he sees everything, a hand clamped around a bleeding neck and the hungry gaze cast over pooling blood. Such a waste.

No one can perceive what he truly is.

 

-

 

He spends his morning throwing up food (people) long since digested, and tugging at his hair as if it will rid him of how it felt, letting evidence slide down his throat and crime scenes sit in his stomach garnished with fig vidal sauce and pomegranate seeds.

In the afternoon Jack comes to see him. He's heavy with relief and pride and it's so overwhelming Will wants to ask him to just stop. Instead his face splits with an aching smile that is eagerly reciprocated and a cup of coffee is pressed into his hands. French press, he doesn't think. He doesn't think of a lot of things. He sips at the polystyrene rim and the knife is still buried in him, down to the hilt. He can feel it. There is a newspaper on the table, and a wilted daffodil. Hannibal, he imagines, would have sent flowers. Orchids perhaps. Three weeks, Jack says, and he wonders when he became so unfriendly with time. The machine keeps the tempo next to him in steady constant blips and there is a grand waltz that Will has been dragged into, penguin suit and all. The front page blares 'RIPPER WILL RIP NO MORE' with a by-line and picture credit. Lounds got her story after all. There's a grainy photo of him, pale and frail, laying in a hospital bed and Christ, does he really look that bad? Jack throws him an apologetic look.

'She got in before we could stop her.' He waves him off because what does it matter anymore? What does it matter whether he lives or dies? Jack tells him Katz is looking after his dogs and there is an elephant sitting firmly in the room, huge and looming and daring Will to poke it. He obliges gracefully.

'When's the trial date?' Not that there is any question. The game is long since up. Will he plead not guilty? Will he smile darkly for the flashing cameras and bare his teeth? Will he be as elegant and graceful in an orange jumpsuit, stripped of his cloth armour? Uncle Jack, dear old Uncle Jack, grimaces and Will watches his mouth open, shut, open again, before a sigh heaves out of his mouth.

'There's a slight problem.' He says and Will knows, knows that this wasn't how it was supposed to be and something has gone horribly, horribly wrong. His wound burns and the skins peels back to show beating organs. His heart pounds like a drum.

 

-

 

The first time they kiss it goes like this.

His feet are burning and his mind is hazy and it's so, so cold, cold enough that his skin prickles and his breath fogs. He's standing on his porch (God knows how he got there) and nothing really exists at all. He's gripping his elbows too tight, shivering, greying t-shirt no match for a Baltimore winter. Blunt fingers dig into his skin and the lines of reality blur in his head. The stag snorts, impatient.

He presses the doorbell because there's nothing else he can do and it's 2:03 am, his name is Will Graham and he's in Baltimore Maryland (on his not-psychiatrist's doorstep). He opens it, still impeccable in a crisp mint shirt and charcoal vest, tie knotted loosely at his throat and Jesus, doesn't he ever wear anything else? _Of course I do Will_ , he says, eyes flat and dull (did he say that out loud?), and holds the door open wider. _Come inside before you freeze to death. I'm sure Jack Crawford would not appreciate you contracting hypothermia._ (Moonlight glints off razor cheekbones and no one, no one has the right to look _that_ good.) Will stumbles into the mouth of the lion and lets a blanket be draped around him, lets him be positioned by the dying embers of a fire, lets a warm mug of tea be pressed into his own cold fingers. He breathes in the smell of old books and aged leather and expensive cologne in crystal bottles and feels safer than he's ever been (and how very, very wrong he is). There's a tome open on the table, hurriedly placed down, half read, and the title is something distinctly not English (not even the same alphabet) and Will never ceases to be amazed. The sofa he's perched on shifts, and he feels dirty, out of place here in this palace, far too scruffy, rough around the edges, faded washed out colours next to vibrant straight lines. He answers questions on automatic and ignores the delicious heat radiating next to him because he's wearing nothing but threadbare boxers and a borrowed blanket. The firelight softens the carved marble façade and for once, one rare moment, he looks almost human, ashen hair and strong jaw and soft lips and he can almost taste them, taste Cabernet Sauvignon, foie gras, black coffee, cream. _I want to kiss you,_ he thinks and his eyes are still the same, dead, but his mouth spews forth a wry response.

'What is stopping you?' He gapes for a moment, fumbles, curses silently and then leans forward, closing the gap between them. Awkward as he'll always be, until he relinquishes control and suddenly he's swept away because where on earth did he learn to kiss like that? He tastes exactly how Will expected, hands grip at 100% Egyptian cotton, crumpling, ruining, leaving his mark, and he parts his lips with a moan because this isn't Alana and there is no pulling back, no stopping. A tongue licks into his mouth and he sucks gently and then there are teeth and the metallic tang of blood and it's too much, hard and fast and painful and Will is on his back, being covered by a blanket of mint and charcoal and warmth. Unorthodox. He wonders what will happen if Uncle Jack finds out only there's a leg slipping between his and pushing up and oh, it appears his brain isn't available to comment.

That is what it is like, the first time they kiss. It doesn't happen again and Will pretends for the sake of his sanity that it never happened at all, another misguided dream in a tumultuous mind.

 

-

 

He's in a coma, they say. He was running and fell down a ravine and his head got caved in by a rock, they say. He'll be out of it soon, absolutely fine again, and we'll be able to press charges, they say. They ask what Will thinks and he says nothing at all.

 

-

 

He had encephalitis. He'd known all along, the bastard, kept it quiet to push Will further into his arms. They're treating it now but sometimes his dreams are still too vivid and the seconds slip by too quickly and he wakes up not knowing where he is. He should be angry and he knows it. Cloven hooves clop down the corridor outside his room and Will understands, accepts, that he will never truly be rid of the horrors in his head.

Sometimes he wonders whether it's all a dream, a different life, that he's the one locked behind bars, green jumpsuit and no shoes, at Chilton's piggy eyed mercy, Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane.

 

-

 

At the end of the week he's worked out how to walk again. He's unsteady, shaky, and the linoleum is burning cold under his feet. He grips the walking frame tighter, watching his knuckles turn white and tries not to feel. The room echoes the screams of those long gone and the walls bleed and there is a reason he doesn't like hospitals. Pure empathy. Beverly smiles at him and tells him he's doing great and Price and Zeller squabble over the last Snickers bar. Alana comes when he is asleep and deposits clothes in his room, his usual plaid flannel and jeans, but unworn, untainted, no memories still clinging to the threads of the fabric, and for that he is grateful. Jack visits every day and Will builds up the courage and eventually, finally, asks to see him.

'No Will.' Comes the inevitable reply, and a string of poor excuses about Will's health and well being. He shrugs and asks him again when the time on the clock finally reaches tomorrow. By the fourth time Jack grudgingly agrees. He's escorted into the room by two armed guards and Will wants to snort because _he's in a coma_ , but Jack is afraid, and if Will had any common sense left he would be too.

He looks peaceful. Most of the left side of his head is bandaged, tufts of silvering hair peeping out, but the stillness smoothes out the lines along his forehead and pulls down his crumbling forts. He looks younger, vulnerable, breathing apparatus and IV tubes, but the cuffs clipping him to the metal frame of the bed serve as a reminder. He's a killer and Will's seen it, seen him slide a blade into his skin (seen him drape that girl over antlers, seen him use a tongue as a bookmarker and a man as a human tool rack) but at the same time he's the man who kissed Will, who became his friend, who anchored him, who never said no. Eyelids flutter and the bulge in his throat bobs with a swallow, and Will wonders if he dreams. The hospital gown in a garishly small pattern is too large and too thin (and utterly wrong next to mountainous cheekbones) but still looks as elegant as a three piece suit on him and Will thinks he could make a trash bag look classy if he put his mind to it. He presses a kiss into knuckles that gripped the blade and walks out before he can cry.

 

He should be angry but he's not.

 

The first thing he does when he's discharged is find the nearest florist and buy an orchid and a crystal vase. He thinks Hannibal would appreciate it. He throws them away when he gets home and it's far too quiet without snuffling and barking and claws clicking on his floor.

 

-

 

Summers in Louisiana burn. Will remembers bathing in his own sweat for weeks, studying fiercely under the watchful glare of the beating sun. _You'll get out of here one day, go far away,_ his Pa had said, one of his rare sober moments. _You're clever, son, you'll make a name for yourself, start afresh._ He still taught him how to fix a boat motor and gut a fish and he still hit him every night, called him a freak, fell asleep in a drunken stupor. Hannibal had found out and cooked him crawfish étouffée with dirty rice flavoured with crass historian. Will had crawled into his arms and cried and his teary eyes had missed the smile that graced his lips because he was right where Hannibal wanted him, breaking apart piece by piece in hands that were ready to reshape him, to his thinking, with mercy.

 

-

 

Returning to normal life is harder than Will could imagine.

Sleeping is hardest, every night plagued by blood stained knives and gun shots and antlers that cradle the moon. His house is too empty. Somewhere outside a coyote calls and he can't tell if it's real or not.

 

His days run like this;

Get up, shower, dress, eat, go to lectures or grade papers, walk the dogs, wash the dogs, work on the boat engine, eat, grade papers, fall asleep, wake up to the feeling of a knife sticking into his gut.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

 

(He doesn't think about the horrible gaping hole in his chest like something is missing there, the urge to drive into Baltimore and sit in a green leather chair, the need to see the stainless steel counters of a low lit kitchen tagged as crime scene.

He doesn't think a lot of things.)

 

-

 

The calendar on the wall says it has been 6 weeks, 4 days, too long. He's sitting on his battered sofa, nursing the same finger of cheap whiskey he'd poured hours ago, when his phone rings. The glass shatters and one of his dogs paws at it and scratches their leg on the sharp edge of a shard. It takes him 5 minutes to stop the bleeding and he almost throws up. Twice. He calls Jack back and already knows what he's going to say, the words he's been yearning for, dreading.

_Lecter's awake._

He's never driven quicker. The nurses give him cautious looks when he hurriedly hobbles down stark white corridors and Jack is waiting, of course he is. His flesh tugs uncomfortably, and he can feel it, the split in his skin, the dark, dark eyes that drove a knife in and let his insides spill out, crimson and alive.

'He's been asking for you.'

'Well, I'm here.' The guards nod and hold the door open for him and he breathes, prepares himself, steps in and there he is, lying there, Hannibal Lecter, psychiatrist, socialite, cannibal.

'Will?' He says, and there's an honest to God smile on his lips, a proper one that reaches his eyes and makes his whole face glow with happiness purely because he's a familiar face in an unfamiliar place and he baulks, turns tail and flees out the door because it's so very, very wrong and his heart hurts so very, very badly. He wants to see a murderer laying there, a cold blooded killer who fed dead bodies to the people who trusted him, liked him, he wants to hate him, but he can't. Because Hannibal had never smiled like that, would never smile like that, just at seeing Will. Amnesia, a blessing and a curse.

 

-

 

They applaud when he walks in and he wants to cry but he has a job to do, a lecture to give. _Stop that_ , he snaps, and thanks a god he doesn't believe in when they do. His scar itches and when he closes his eyes there is an image burned on to his lids, a knife, his blood, a dead stare.

'This is how I caught the Chesapeake Ripper.' And the words catch in his throat and burn in his stomach.

 

Freddie Lounds leaves eighteen voicemails on his phone asking for an interview. He needs a new number. She'd find that too, eventually.  

 

-

 

Alana helps him move back in and his house is too cold and too lonely and too quiet. The dogs fill it up (fill him up) with their joyful panting and playful skitters but there is still something missing, something he can't put his finger on, doesn't want to put his finger on. They clear out his kitchen together, binning rotting fruits and sorting out the non perishable from the truly perished. A month is long enough to spoil anything and his milk is almost green. A stone cold cup of coffee sits abandoned on his table sporting a colony of mould. He makes them a masterpiece of squishy pasta with a dusty jar of tomato sauce and promises to go shopping tomorrow. Alana holds him like he's fragile and reminds him to take his pills and he throws everything up once her car has disappeared down the road. The tomato stains the toilet red with blood and Winston whines.

Will doesn't go shopping. The days slip past until he's lost count and somewhen he digs out a bottle of whiskey he shouldn't have and drowns himself in it. El purgatorio, his mind echoes numbly, as he presses his face into his pillow and tries to stop breathing.

At night he dreams of the devil, four heads crowned with a sea of spiked horns and he whispers to Will, beats eyed wings and laughs with a lion's roar, an ox's snort, an eagle's caw. _Who sleeps while we pray over them?_ He whispers, sharp teeth and clawed hands, and an unmistakable accent. _Who is the saint and who is the fragile little tea cup, the mongoose, the snake hunter? Your values and decency are appalled, yet present at your associations, shocked at your dreams, enlightening isn't it?_

He wakes covered in sweat and it's oddly calming to pull off his t-shirt, stumble into a shower so cold it freezes him, a shower so hot it burns away the blood on his hands.

_You have been terribly rude William. What is to be done about that?_

 

-

 

It takes him a week to return to the hospital. Hannibal, he's told, is sleeping, but he pushes into the room anyway, collapses quietly into a chair and watches the slow rise and fall of his rib cage, chin tucked against his chest. A nurse comes in at some point to tell him that visiting time is over until Jack bodily hauls her out.

He stirs eventually, blinks once and is immediately awake, sleep falling off him like shedded clothes. Will smiles because he's the only person he knows who can do that, and it's horribly familiar in a way that clenches in his gut (Just once, he'd fallen asleep during one of their late night sessions that had gone on too long, sprawled out in his chair while Will paced by the window. Human after all. He'd covered him carefully with his jacket, a makeshift duvet, smiled and kissed his forehead. He'd stayed with him, a silent guardian, and watched amazed as he woke up to the sound of a book snapping shut, completely alert, apologies spilling from his lips. Will had driven him home and allowed the pack to clamber on to his bed that night, anything to quell the ache of loneliness in his heart). He sweeps the room and freezes when his eyes graze over the chair by the door.

'Will?' He says, and it's different and the same this time, closed and guarded and tinged with pain but still brimming with emotion so very unlike Hannibal the Stoic, Hannibal the Professionally Indifferent, Hannibal the Completely Impassive. He offers up a curl of his lips, carefully keeping his body language neutral as he coaxes the stray into the back of his car, and gets a slight smile in return.

'Hey.' There is a slight inclination of his head and the _Good evening_ that follows is painful to listen to. 'You look better.' There is a grimace that doesn't belong on that face, his face, bones carved from mountains and eyes like lagoons and lips like icebergs tossed on a stormy sea and it catches Will off guard (He's got so very good at reading micro expressions that every shift in his face feels like a mudslide sweeping him away).

'Better.' He repeats, with a wave to the bandages swathing his head. 'Physically yes. However mentally I am told I am not who I am. Agent Crawford pushes me with questions I can not answer and the world punishes me for crimes I do not remember. Better.' Will shifts uncomfortably and drops his gaze to his hands because he can practically feel the confusion, the overwhelming sadness radiating out and it's almost too much for him to bear. He thinks he hears a murmured apology and suddenly the emotion is reined in enough for him to think again. He glances up and stares at a stubbled chin (Because those eyes are the last thing he remembers, blood red, plunging a knife into his abdomen.) and almost, almost asks but decides there is a better time.

'I'll talk to Jack.' Is all he says. 'Ask him to back off for a while.' And the murmured thank you he receives in return is the most genuinely thing he's heard in a long time.

 

-

 

He gives lectures and tries to sleep and throws up everything he pushes inside his mouth until he doesn't and maybe, just maybe, he's getting better.

 

-

 

He goes back the next day, sweaty fingers clutched around the waxy spine of a well worn paperback and it's silly, he should turn back now before he makes a fool of himself, but his feet aren't listening and his hands are twisting the door knob before he can stop them.

'Will.' And the smile he gets knocks the breath out of his lungs.

'Doctor Lecter.' He takes his place in the chair, his chair, the only chair and tries not to imagine green leather and books and wooden floors because _you wouldn't like me when I'm psychoanalysed_. He sweats nervously and patient eyes watch him like a parent teaching their kid how to ride a bike, cuffed hands ready to catch him when he falls. 'How are you doing?'

'Good. The doctor says I may have a scar on my forehead but there will be no permanent damage.' _Apart from amnesia_ , they don't say. _Apart from you being a monster. Apart from the fact you killed and ate people and fed them to us_ (and we smiled and chewed and swallowed because it was delicious). 'How are you?'

'I'm fine, thanks.' The lie falls so easily off his tongue like it's been doing all these years but he sees Hannibal's brow crease and worry pour into his face and how is he doing that, because even Jack hadn't noticed yet? He doesn't say anything which Will is eternally grateful for. 'I thought you might like to hear a story? I mean it sounds stupid now that I'm saying it, because you're a fully grown man and I'm not reading you a bedtime story or a fairytale or anything, I just thought seeing as you've been cooped up in here for so long you might like t-'

'Will,' He says, and he's radiating happiness like he's the goddamn sun. 'Please, read.'  Will coughs and pretends his cheeks aren't painted red and opens the book to the first page and begins. It's not perfect because it's Will, the words all stilted and grumbled out in gravelly tones but Hannibal only closes his eyes and hums contented and Will can almost imagine them sitting in his little home in Wolf Trap, fire roaring and dogs scattered about on the floor.

'Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what's the use of a book," thought Alice, "without pictures or conversations?"'

He reads until his voice is hoarse and he's sure Hannibal is asleep and he silently closes the book and leaves it on the little table by the bed and slips out of the door and wonders if he shall fall right _through_ the earth!

He dreams of rabbits and blood and the endless ticking of a pocket watch he doesn't own.

 

-

 

Jack calls him in and it's been 8 weeks and a day of utter bliss and suddenly he's dragged back into the maelstrom of the BAU and he doesn't have an anchor to cling to this time. For a moment he wonders what crime scene he's going to stare at today, and in the corner of his eye, echoes dance merrily, mushrooms and totems and angels, and fleece as white as snow.

'It's about Lecter,' Jacks says and Will really should have known, because Jack keeps tabs on who goes in and out of that room and Will's his only regular visitor (once a day and he brings a new book every time they finish one and the joy on his killer's face makes his heart thud in ways it shouldn't.) 'I want you to get close to him.'

 _I am close_ , he doesn't say. He nods instead.

'Considering so far you're the only one he'll talk to I'm relying on you Will. I need you to find out whether he's lying or not. Amnesia is a good card in court, a card we can't afford to have played.'

 _Of course he's not lying_ , he doesn't say. Instead, he nods. It satisfies Jack at least.

'Now I'm giving you unrestricted 24/7 access to Lecter, not that you don't ignore visiting times already. Get close and find out. I'm sure if we dig deep enough he'll crumble or at the very least, remember. But I need to trust you Will. I know you care for him, see him as your friend, but this guy stuck a knife in you.'

 _No_ , he doesn't say, _the old Hannibal stuck a knife in me. This one reads fairytales and plays scrabble and chess and lets me win every time._

'Can I trust you?'

'Of course.' He says and Jack stares, long and hard until Will passes his imaginary lie detector and he nods.

'Good. I want you with him at least 10 hours a week and Alana Bloom is going to give you a hand as well. We have another psychiatrist on call for you as well, if you need him.'

'Thanks, but I'll be fine Jack.' _I already have a psychiatrist,_ he doesn't say.

 

-

 

Every time he opens the door (and he knows this tiny room better than his own by now), he smiles and can forget that there are guards with guns outside, that there are reporters still bustling at the hospital doors, that there are families out there grieving for coq au vin and pot au feu.

Part of him, a dark part that's less him and more a patchwork of glassy eyes and dried blood, still searches for the Hannibal who pushed a knife into his skin ( _I will eat your heart_ ). He's eternally grateful when he finds nothing but wide curious stares (childlike, almost) and easy smiles. It's like a marble statue has been eaten away by acid rain, revealing something living, breathing, feeling, inside and Will relishes in it.

'I brought breakfast.' He says and he watches eyes light up even though it's only instant coffee, greasy bacon sandwiches and lukewarm donuts (Ah but he's brought it and that makes all the difference and suddenly it's manna from heaven). Hannibal would have turned his nose up, _should_ turn his nose up. Hannibal grasps his paper bag and cardboard cup with an overpowering friendly warmth and thanks Will as genuinely as he always has(n't). Perhaps the fall was a blessing in disguise. They eat silently, comfortably, rustling paper and the sprinkle of sticky sugar.

After all, hospital food is horrid.

 

-

 

Freddie Lounds gets in eventually. Will should have seen it coming, should have protected him better, saved him, but none of them could have known how she would climb an emergency fire escape and shimmy through a window on the fourth floor, how she would steal a clipboard and nurse's uniform and waltz into Hannibal's room with hair straightened and dyed to be less than iconic, how she would interrogate him all in the name of ad sales and a front page headline; _Exclusive interview with the century's biggest psychopath_. Will could only be thankful he'd walked in on time, a fluke, a coincidence, pulled the viper off of the mouse before it could deliver the killing blow, inject its venom into Hannibal's veins (poor, weak, broken Hannibal), strike him down.

 

Will had never seen Hannibal cry before. Not his infallible Doctor Lecter, who looked as unruffled holding in a man's kidney as he did hosting a dinner party for Baltimore's socially elite (Will couldn't decide which one was more terrifying. Possibly the dinner party). It takes him longer than it should to realise the implications of heaving shoulders and face buried deep in hands but then again, he has a horse hitched close to Asperger's and autism. For a moment, a long, horrible moment drawn out in loving hatred for Freddie Lounds, he is unsure what to do. When his dogs pine he gives them extra Kibble, extra attention, a warm body to be close to, a firm hand in their fur and whispered reassurances in a language neither human nor dog. He supposes people can't be that dissimilar (except, perhaps, for the dog food) and that no one else is going to come and play Mother for a cannibalistic psychopath.

Hannibal is heavy with an aching sadness when Will moves him, slides on to a thin mattress and positions stiff limbs into an awkward embrace. He lets the man cling to him, rocks him gently and rubs soothing circles into his back. Salty tears stain the shoulder of his shirt but it doesn't matter because Hannibal is crying, the silent kind full of stuttering breaths and the occasional racking sob that chokes out of his throat. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and he gently wipes tears from cheeks with the pad of his thumb and whispers comfort in a language that's not quite English and not quite Lithuanian and for once in his life, Will Graham (poor, weak, broken Will Graham) is the anchor, the source of stability and clarity, the bedrock.

After forever and no time at all Hannibal judders to a halt, coughing and choking on shallow breaths. Will wipes away his tears on crumpled tissues and coaxes him - stray dog - into breathing slower and slower and focus on my voice and that's it, _sleep well Hannibal_. He risks a kiss to his damp forehead and feels eyes watching him, burdened with disapproval.

Jack tells him he hopes he knows what the hell he is doing and Will's heart aches.

 

-

 

New Orleans reminds Will of beignets and homicide and the small (deep) white (2 inches) scar on his shoulder. He remembers late night patrols and the red light district that shouldn't exist and the occasional drugs bust. Friday nights were always the worst, the slow drag of time punctuated by sirens and screaming and sometimes they seemed like they'd never end, that he'd be stuck in a constant loop with the city's lowlifes and nothing to comfort him but the empty crackle of the radio feedback. Somehow, against all odds, the sun would crawl into the sky the next morning with a resigned kind of optimism and Will would watch it from the window of his shitty apartment with a cup of hot chocolate in his hands because he'd never sleep with coffee, and he'd doze and dream of his Pa's voice and wonder if this was all there is to life, whether he'd grow old, alone in these four dingy walls, die on the police force, tomorrow or twenty years from now. Rapists and pedophiles and murders were his only company and really he'd been glad to get away, escape to pastures new before he could dwell too long on things beyond him (and dislodge the blade from his razor and do something stupid).

 

-

 

He wears the same face and looks completely different and it's enthralling. He never says anything, never lets the words slip out of his mouth because they're each other's weaknesses and the world doesn't need to know that.

 

(But deep down a part of him thinks it does have a name, a four letter word beginning with L.)

 

-

 

When Will opens the door and Hannibal flinches, he knows. He knows and he's so very, very angry, so angry that Hannibal curls in on himself (defensive, submissive, coping mechanism) and whimpers, and Will is forced to hold himself in because this has to stop.

Jack is waiting for him.

 

He knows.

Will rages. For once he lets go, fills himself with an anger that's only partially his (it's mostly at his wife, his daughter, his husband, his neighbour, that woman in church with the snobby nose). His hands don't shake and his voice doesn't tremble and he's already planning the best way to kill before he can stop himself (sharp twist severing the spinal cord at the second vertebrae, removal of liver, stroganoff with chestnut mushrooms, crème fraîche and a nice Chardonnay).

'Jack,' he says, voice like the sharpened edge of a blade, and even the great and powerful Guru looks a little shaken because he's more than Will Graham, he's a lifetime of repressed souls all baying for blood, his blood (a sprinkle of black pepper for zest perhaps? Or the earthy flavour of nutmeg?). 'What have you done?'

'Will, listen to me, you need to calm down.'

'I don't like repeating myself Jack, _what have you done?_ ' There is a sigh, a slump of shoulders, hands that rub across his face and at least he has the common decency to pulse with remorse, regret.

'I pushed too hard. I couldn't just sit there and look at the man who killed Miriam Lass, and the man who nearly killed you, at the man who has killed more people than we will _ever know_ and has been laughing at us from under our noses while he feeds us dead bodies, _and do nothing_. Whatever show you have going on with Lecter, it's not quick enough for me. I needed to snap him out of whatever game he's playing now, so I pushed, and I pushed too hard.' And Will understands, he really does, but it doesn't seem to quell the tide that's risen in him, roaring along. 'I questioned him, showed him the evidence we found, pictures of his past crimes, and he broke down. I just need him to stop lying for once, to remember, because someone needs to pay for this, and I can't lock up a man who doesn't recall killing anyone and sleep easy at night.' He's oozing fearful sweat and a bright, devouring need and Will realises he's not the only one who is broken. _The Ripper was humiliating someone and he would say it worked very well._

'Jack,' He says, and maybe one day he'll escape, buy a little beach front house and live on freshly caught grilled fish every day, let his dogs play in the waves. His voice is ice and the north wind and the slow carve of a glacier through a frozen wasteland. ' _He's not lying._ '

 

( _You see,_ Bedelia sighs over coffee, and Will decides that he likes her, calm, blonde hair, tight mouth, honesty, _he was wearing a very well tailored people suit._

Will nods and sips his mocha and thinks, maybe more of a human veil.)

 

There's nothing more than a lump in the bed by the time Will returns, thin sheets pulled over his head, and body twisted despite the inevitable burn in his wrists. The air is stale with fear and disgust and Will wants to drop to his knees and cry but he's the anchor now and he has to be strong (Being an anchor is harder than he though and he wonders, when the lump flinches as the door is pushed open and his heart mirrors the action, how Lecter did it all these years).

'Hannibal?' He says, and he approaches the wounded animal slowly, carefully, voice low and soft. There is a muffled sob and Will pulls back the sheets to reveal a blotchy face and teary eyes. _Oh Hannibal,_ he says, and he holds him, lets him cry all over again. At one point there's a horrible dry heave and Will rushes to grab the trash can, to pat and rub and soothe as the day's hospital food is welcomed back into the world, plastered on the bottom of a plastic bag. His shirt doesn't escape, flecks of vomit coating plaid and he pulls it off without thinking, running a clean wash cloth under the cold tap and carefully wiping around his mouth, cleaning up stray drips of bile and then he sees it. It's already scarring, a thick white ridge of flesh that's pale even compared to Will's creamy skin and hands grip his hips before he can move away and emotions are running on a horrible feedback loop, whining in their ears as they're bounced backwards and forwards like a ping pong ball. Inaugural. His eyes (and Will hopes he will forgive him because he still can't quite _look_ ) are transfixed on his hip and he moves one hand, trailing a gentle finger along the jagged line until the chain pulls and his wrist jerks and he does his best not to wince because it's still sore (even more so now, a throbbing ache).

'Will, my dear, sweet Will,' Hannibal echoes, plunging the knife in, and for one horrible moment he thinks he's remembered, that he'll lean forward and rip it open again with his teeth and feast on his flesh and Will will let him (because really he's always known how he'll die) and then there are tears welling up again, hot and fat and Will holds him, is held, and they both clutch at the frayed edges of reality together and smash the wrong piece of the jigsaw puzzle into the final hole and wonder when it all went to hell. Soft hair tickles his sensitive skin and he's pressing his face in, whispering words will never understand in a language he doesn't know and healing his wound (their wound, for it is that the artist can not live without his canvas nor the canvas without artist) with the softest glide of lips, and he'd almost forgotten how they felt against his skin.

Will doesn't know how long they stand there but the night eventually greys into morning and there are still tears in both their eyes and he's 87% sure the nurse who walked in for morning checks got the wrong idea (Hannibal was still nuzzling at the hem of his jeans) and he knows dear old Uncle Jack will want to know exactly what is going on, but for now he affords himself a measure of peace and Hannibal (don't the two mean the same thing?).

 

The scar binds them.  

 

-

 

He goes to visit Alana and the stag pads quietly after him, and she's exactly as Will remembers (except perhaps, the new found tightness in her eyes that says so much and not enough). She smiles and opens the door and makes him coffee and he doesn't think French press.

'I'm worried about Hannibal.' He mentions casually and it was the wrong thing to say because her whole body tightens, freezes, if only for a second but it's long enough for Will to grasp that he's in this alone. Her smile is too wide and her eyes have drawn in on themselves and a cloud of flies swarm around her when she turns back to him.

'I've heard. Jack says you're getting close. Not too close I hope.'

'Jack is pushing him too hard.'

A pause. 'Maybe a push is what he needs.' The year slowly cascades from summer into winter and Will understands. Anger boils in him (and it's mostly his, although that man with the yappy dog was _terribly rude_ ).

'You weren't saying that with Abigail.' And it snaps and it's glorious to watch.

' _Abigail_ \- Abigail wasn't a cannibalistic serial killer!' Will smiles and he's not sure it's his own face anymore but he knows now; he's alone. He watches Doctor Bloom, beautiful kissable Doctor Bloom, hear what she said and he thinks now is a good time to place down his coffee and walk out so he does.

 

Being alone does not scare him as much as it should. After all he's been alone most of his life. Now he has something, some _one_ , worth being isolated for.

 

-

 

Sometimes, rarely, when Hannibal is too tired (and it still shocks Will every time he falls asleep) or a new dose of meds is singing through his veins, he tells Will about his life, about countries Will will never see, the long, tree lined avenues of Paris, the turquoise waters of Spain, the infinite fields of grapes in Italy, the beating sun in Turkey and the coldness of a Russian winter. His eyes light up and his hands paint words and Will can close his lids and see them all through maroon eyes, the world at his feet. His heart pounds and he's somewhere between crying and laughing and maybe, if he had to put a name to it, this is love.

 

Sometimes, when Jack has been in for too long and Will has been kept away in Quantico and it's dark and quiet, he tells Will how he thinks perhaps he should have just died because it would be better than this, the uncertainty, the torture, the seeing but not understanding and Will's heart aches and he's somewhere between crying and smashing something and yes, yes he's sure now, this is love.

(He pulls the chair closer on nights like that, laces his fingers with artist's hands, surgeon's hands, tells him it's going to be ok and he will always have Will and they'll figure this out somehow. Sometimes he believes himself and other times he thinks of how much easier it would be if the man lying in front of him was a killer, a cannibal, dead eyes and bloodied hands.

Or dead.)

 

-

 

It takes him too long to notice the change. He's too caught up in the crumbling world around him because after three bloody months the press are still baying for interviews and comments and trial dates. Freddie Lounds writes about nothing else and the public lap it up and start to question too (SHY SERIAL KILLER? the papers sing and they all dance along to her merry tune. TRIAL DATE UNCONFIRMED. NO COMMENT. NO COMMENT. WHAT ARE THEY HIDING?).

Hannibal’s not eating.

Well that's not strictly speaking true, because he always graciously nibbles on whatever Will has picked up on the way over (fries and apples and instant coffee), but he never seems to finish anything. It's worse with the nurses Jack says, he won't touch a single crumb, and Will thinks (doesn't think), _well we all know who's to blame_.

He sees it now, every time he enters into the room, sunken cheeks and hollowed stomach and skin shrinking over bones and he wonders how long he's been blind to this because it's clearly been going on for a while.

Hannibal looks frail. He's petrified.

He tries to bring it up once, just once, and he watches the horror spread over him, sees photographs of packaged organs swimming in his eyes and he understands. Hannibal waves it off, says he's fine, but he knows Will knows, and they sit in a silence that is altogether uncomfortable.

Hannibal looks frail. The nurses say he's stopped getting better and started to deteriorate. And it's horrifying to see the knuckles bulge under steady hands and his clavicle protrude from his skin and his cheek bones soar because his body is literally consuming itself in an attempt to stay alive. He wonders if all those suits, perfectly tailored and exceedingly expensive, would hang off him now, sag at thinning shoulders and drown tiny wrists. Jack fumes because a dead serial killer is no good to him and force feeding is less than ethical. Will cries because a dead Hannibal is no good to him and he needs his anchor in his life. His dogs pile warm furry bodies on top of him and smother him and they always know.

He visits a restaurant one day, the sort of fancy upmarket place with ambient lighting and fish tanks that Will wouldn't be seen dead in and Hannibal would blend right into. Somehow, against all odds, he convinces them to let him take food away (he doesn't look at the bill and just gives them his credit card because it's worth every penny), and drives straight to the hospital. He juggles plastic plate covers in the lift and ignores the odd looks thrown his way.

Hannibal is sleeping when he sweeps open the door and deposits a four course meal on to the tiny table next to his bed. He blinks and smiles sleepily and Will has to call his name too many times to get him to snap out of his dreamy state.

'Will,' He sighs, like it's the only word he knows anymore and the smile he fails to hide makes his heart burst. Sitting him up is easier said than done, but they manage, two broken ponies leaning on each other and Will picks up the knife and fork he remembered and kicks off his shoes and settles cross legged next to him.

'Dinner is served.' He announces and the look of abject horror makes him want to cry because this is Hannibal and this is food and the two are practically married to each other.

_You were already having an affair._

'Will, as much as I appreciate it, I'm really no-' Will decides the best way to silence him is with his mouth so he does and that is their second kiss. Hannibal is dry and tastes like lemon disinfectant and paper towels and its quick and chaste and nowhere near enough but this is about food not Will's decidedly interested cock. Hannibal looks suitably stunned and Will wonders if he remembers the first time or whether it’s another part of him that has got lost along the way, and he uses the pause to reveal the first dish and scoop some on to a fork.

'Seared sea scallops, Jerusalem artichokes, truffled jus.' He says, as if he knows what any of it means. 'And I promise, none of it is human.' Hannibal shudders and Will raises the fork to his lips, sampling the appetizer. It's good, nothing like what Hannibal used to prepare, but the flavours still burst on his tongue and he hums contented. Hannibal watches him, interested obviously, and Will counts it as a win. 'Would you like to try some?' Will sees him tense, the walls rearing up again, and shrugs, allowing himself another mouthful.

'How much did this cost Will?'

'That doesn't matter. What matters is that it tastes amazing and someone is going to eat it, even if I have to get Price and Zeller in here.' He dips a mouthful of scallop in the sauce and waves it, tempting, in front of Hannibal, watching his eyes follow it, flickering between Will and the fork. 'Are you _sure_ you wouldn't like to try some?'

'Perhaps ... Just a little.' And Will allows himself a victory dance inside his head. It's a start at least. He guides the fork forwards and resists the temptation to make aeroplane noises like a mother to a stubborn toddler. He watches Hannibal chew, slowly and thoughtfully, muscles in his jaw twitching, and tells him to swallow and he'll know if he hasn't because Will's secretly psychic. He smiles and gulps the food down diligently and they give happiness to each other in a weird exponential loop.

'It could do with a little fresh lemon juice,' He says and Will knows that everything is going to be alright. He feeds Hannibal between his own bites and they talk and it takes him four hours but it's the most satisfying four hours of his life. He coaxes wild sea bass and exotic cheeses and pear salad down his throat and finishes it off with a summer berry Pavlova and occasionally feels Jack watching him through the window in the door. They have to stop regularly because Hannibal's stomach has shrunk and fills up far too quickly, and when they do they discuss politics and philosophy and Will can almost pretend they are in that dark dining room with the looming centrepiece and the odd picture and then he realises that he much prefers sitting on a creaking hospital bed with food that went cold hours ago and still tastes amazing and Hannibal criticising the world's best chefs.

He stumbles out when the clock is telling him its morning already and Hannibal has just fallen asleep and Jack stares at him with tired eyes and tells him he did a good job. _It wasn't for you_ , he doesn't think and he nods and ends up sleeping in his car, still in the parking lot.

 

-

 

He never really meant to fall in love; it was just something that happened, inevitable.

 

'I brought you some proper lunch,' He says, like they are an old married couple. 'And I found a book of poetry, Poe I think.' There is a shy gesture towards the chair and a vulnerability in his eyes and Will wants to hold him and not let go.

'Would you mind reading to me Will?' And if he squints he can make out a splash of colour on high cheekbones.

'Of course not.' And his words are soft as they spin tales of lands and people and ravens.

 

He kisses him again as he leaves and this time everything is slow and gentle and careful and he knows this will be the first of many.

 

-

 

One day he says he's fine with a face that looks no more tired than usual and Hannibal quietly whispers, _No, not you're not,_ and Will asks him, because he's been doing this for years and no one ever knows when he sleepwalks, when he sweats, when he tosses and turns and the nightmares come and his brain is filled with the whispers of murderers, unless he tells them.

'I have always been able to understand people Will.' He says, calmly as anything, only his eyes gaze out of the window and stare at some far off scene Will can't make out. 'Even when I was little I would understand, almost see the emotions radiating out of people, patch together their lives based on their hands and their mouths and their eyes. It was always worst during surgery, when there was nothing but fear and the screaming pain inside their heads and it wasn't the same as a cadaver or a mannequin, it lived and breathed and I couldn't save them. So I turned my hand to psychiatry instead and understood the monsters that lurked beneath people's skin, the shadows that come alive in the corners of their eyes and the sounds that only their ears can hear.' Will hears his breath rush out of him but it sounds dim and distant and his mouth echoes the words ringing through his mind.

'Pure empathy.' And dark, dark eyes turn to him with a crashing tidal wave of sorrow that drowns out the weak curve of lips and Will can hardly stand to bear it, all those years of feeling, bombarded by the flood of emotion and Will understands.

'In a way. I believe we are similar in that respect. You escape through isolation and your dogs. I can only assume I tried to shut it out by brutally murdering those who overwhelmed me.' He can see it, feel it, the pain etched into every line of his face and how had he missed this, all along? 'I never did like pets.'

 

The laugh that bounces around him is as hollow as he is.

 

-

 

'I thought I could trust you Will.' Jack says and the game is up.

 

-

 

 _Let’s get away from here_ , he says one day, when his sleep has been chased away by angels in disguise for far too long, and his eyes finally droop because here in his arms, he's safe.

There's a quiet chuckle tinged with melancholy and fingers running through his hair (fingers that wielded scalpels, that choked life out of slim throats, that held the knife and ripped out his still beating heart and no, no, not those fingers) and his reply comes on a warm breath sighed out on to his forehead. _Where would you like to go Will?_

 _Italy_ , he decides, _Italy. We'll live in a little white villa on a beach and you'll cook and I'll fish and the dogs can play in the waves_. _And in the evenings we'll watch the sun stain the sea orange and we'll dance on the sand beneath the stars._

And strong fingers trace his nose, his mouth, his jaw line and say, _It sounds perfect._

 

_Italy it is._

 

-

 

Later, much, much later, when his hair is as white as paper and his wrinkled eyes still glimmer blue behind plastic frames and he's become a bit of a household name, they'll feed his dogs bits of sausage and ask, _How on earth did you fall in love with a cannibal?_

 

 _'You are old, Father William', the young man said,_  
   _'And your hair has become very white;_  
 _And yet you incessantly stand on your head --_  
 _Do you think, at your age, it is right?'_

 _'In my youth', Father William replied to his son,_  
   _'I feared it might injure the brain;_  
 _But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,_  
 _Why, I do it again and again.'_

 

And he'll smile and shake his head and let his hands twitch through silky fur and wheeze out the same laugh and say, _I didn't think I'd find him that interesting._

 

 _But you will,_ The devil replies.

 

-

 

He wakes not knowing he fell asleep and for a moment he's horribly, horribly disorientated. The room is dark and lit up from the glow of the machines that are still blipping and he can taste fear in the air.

His eyes dart towards the bed and Christ, Hannibal's thrashing and moaning and there are no dogs here to chase away the nightmares. Part of him wonders if this was a regular occurrence, if unconsciousness peeled back the Hannibal Lecter that he knew and bared his soul.

Before he knows what he's doing he's toed off his shoes and shrugged off his jacket and he's placing calming hands on muscular shoulders and trying to understand but the words are jumbled, garbled, unfamiliar to his ears.

_Mischa._

'Hannibal, you're dreaming, it's just a dream, I'm here.'

_Prašom, atleisk man, Mischa._

'It's just a nightmare Hannibal, come on,'

_Aš negalėjau išgelbėti jus. Aš atsiprašau, Mischa._

He does the only thing he can think of, pulling back damp sheets and sliding in next to him. He can feel muscles twitch and spasm under the thin gown and he chases them away with lips and hands, hushes and soothes, brushes stray locks of hair from a sweaty forehead and waits, patiently, for the nightmare to subside, for sleep to reclaim them.

In the morning he'll say, _Hannibal, who's Mischa?_ And he'll huddle around a fire with frozen feet and puff warm breaths over tiny hands and watch her giggle and smile and sing quiet songs in a language he doesn't speak and brush cold fingers down her slender neck and _'Annibal, that tickles!_

He'll watch them play with her, greedy eyes and sharp teeth and he'll fight until his dying breath but it's never enough and hot blood melts through the snow and _Forgive me Mischa_ as he honours her completely (her heart is still warm as he cradles it in his hands and savours it in his mouth).

But until then he'll wrap his arms a little tighter and hold him a little closer and watch over him.

(It becomes a ritual, a habit, and too often he finds himself crawling on to a flimsy mattress next to a warm body. Sometimes he's asleep, sometimes he's awake and Will simply lays his head in his lap and let his fingers chase away the stress. Sometimes Will has nightmares and sometimes it's Hannibal but it's always the same name, no matter what.)

 

The ghosts of the past are blissfully quiet.

 

-

 

Beverly tells him it’s a bad idea and of course it is, when does he ever have good ideas? Still she says she'll help him and Will is eternally grateful. He'll send her some wine, he promises. She helps him sell his house without Jack knowing, takes him and his dogs in, enlists the help of her nephew and Will, Will feels like he's in a crazy spy movie and oh God, it's actually happening. He tells Hannibal and they argue, because this is a bad idea, but it's a chance and he won't drag Will into this but Will is already in and they won't get out alive then they'll just have to die together.

It takes 2 months and then it's ready.

Will wrings his hands and sneezes and everything goes to hell.

 

Beverly calls him occasionally on a disposable phone and tells him how the news plays nothing but the greatest escape of the century. She tells him how Jack has resigned from the BAU and the whole world is falling apart. She tells him the guards were fine and she hopes the dogs made it ok. Will thanks her with tears because _this is it Pa, I've made it; I've found my purpose_ , _my happy ending_. He tells her to have a good life and doesn't call again.

 

-

 

There's a little white villa that sits on the edge of a beach with sand like gold and the sea like sapphire. Behind them a little vineyard stretches out in a lazy sprawl and on Monday's there's a farmer's market in the nearest village, 6 miles away. The sun stains the sea orange as it dawdles out of the sky and once it has gone the night sky glitters with a million stars, white splatters against velvet navy.

There's a gramophone that's slowly coaxing out a tune from the sluggish disc below it, and empty dinner plates lay in the sink, ready to be washed. The lights glow orange and when you look at it from a distance it looks like a boat on the sea. Waves break gently and crickets sing and life here is peaceful.

The younger dogs splash in the waves but Winston, the oldest and wisest of them, prefers to watch from the comfort of the rug on the veranda (he doesn't think he could get down to the sea anyway, his back legs have been playing up again). He watches the two men hold each other as they dance in slow circles under the moon, foreheads together and fingers entwined and this, this is love.

 

-

 

'What's the relationship like between you and Doctor Lecter?' And Will wants to laugh and tear out her red hair because she'll never quite understand how his heart speeds up and his hands ache to touch and his lips twitch into a smile.

 

'It's ...' And what is it? What word can sum it up? 'Complicated.'

(Tomorrow's headlines will scream IT'S COMPLICATED and he knows it.)

 

The smile he gives her says run, because the mongoose is coming.

 

-

 

The doorbell rings and Beverly stumbles downstairs because it's 5 in the morning on a Saturday and she really should be asleep right now. The stag tosses its head and clippetty-clops down the street, antlers on fire. She opens the door and almost, almost, screams in frustration because there's no one there until she notices the dark shape on her doorstep. She picks it up carefully and hurriedly shuts the door against Baltimore's cold winter, retreating into the dim depths of her kitchen.

It's a godamn wine bottle. For a moment, she's forgotten, she doesn't understand, doesn't remember and then she reads the label that's in a familiar chicken scratch and everything clicks into place.

_First crop grew this year and we managed to squeeze out a bottle. Hannibal wanted to keep it for ourselves but I convinced him we owed you one, and besides, I have a reputation to uphold. I've been reliably informed there are no people in it._

_Will_

She snorts and cracks it open and pours herself a glass before it can breathe properly. It's dark and fruity and perhaps a little too strong, but it brings a smile to her face and she raises a toast and thinks, hopes, prays, that those two crazy idiots are happy, wherever they are.

 

And the devil can whisper all he wants.

 

If I should live another day

I pray the Lord to guide my way.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly I apologise (especially for my tagging and the corny ending and the confusing lack of chronology). 
> 
> Also as a native Brit this hasn't been Americanized although I've tried. Sorry if any of the spellings don't come out quite right or the terminology's a bit off.
> 
> Secondly, 
> 
> The Lithuanian Hannibal says (for those of you who haven't already checked) should translate to; Please, forgive me Mischa - and - I couldn't save you, I'm sorry Mischa, however as I sadly do not speak it fluently I did have to rely on the services of the infallible Google Translate for this, so if it actually means the turkey is cooking nicely and we're going to have people sausages for dinner I would not be surprised.
> 
> The book Will reads to Hannibal is Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll which is the same place the poem 'You are old Father William' comes from, which was oddly fitting so I stuck it in. 
> 
> The prayer Now I Lay me Down To Sleep I shamelessly stole after Bryan Fuller used it in the show. Also more thanks to Bryan after I nicked like half his show and reworded it for this. 
> 
> Coq au vin and pot au feu are traditional meaty french dishes that I can totally see Hannibal serving. 
> 
> Will's back story I got from patching together what I could from the films, books and the exceedingly helpful Hannibal Wikia. 
> 
> The dinner Will brings to Hannibal is based off of the Dorchester Hotel's menu because I suck at food and haven't the foggiest what tastes good together. 
> 
> I think that's it. Thank you very much for reading and any kudos, bookmarks and comments are gratefully loved on by me :3


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